C.T. Adams is a U.S.A. Today Bestselling Author who writes both individually and as co-author with Cathy L. Clamp. Our new joint pen name is Cat Adams. This is Cie's Blog. View and Participate AT YOUR OWN RISK (BWA, HA, HA, HA!!!)

Thursday, March 05, 2015

STUFF AND CHAPTER 1

We're in the beginning of March. March 10 is the release date for THE EXILE. I have a huge blog tour coming up, which is awesome. (See below. There are a couple more interviews that were late entries into the game, I'll try to post them later, but can't seem to find them at the moment).

I just got the newsletter drafted. It should go out today. New puzzle with contest and, of course, the first sneak peek of the book. I haven't gotten the video camera thing going yet because life has been lifish, but I want to get you guys excited, so you get a sneak peek too. Now, the newsletter peek was a bit longer -- I want to reward people who sign up after all. But you get a taste now, and more to follow in a couple of days.

(Note, this was cut and pasted from a typed version of the manuscript, not
the final copy, so pardon any errors as being part of the risk you take for
peeking.):

PROLOGUE

Atropos shivered, despite the weight
of her heavy wool cloak. Her bones ached and her joints stiffened in wet
weather. It made her move more slowly, which meant she would be out in the rain
longer. That soured her mood. She did not want to do this, and cursed the
necessity. Normally she’d let one of her other two aspects handle it. With her
youth, Clotho could ignore foul weather, and while Lachesis loathed the damp,
it didn’t incapacitate her. But both of them had history with the King of the
Sidhe. Atropos did not trust the younger ones not to be affected by sentiment.
So with faltering footsteps, supported by a cane carved of ash, she made her
way through the darkened rose garden, following a path strewn with shifting
shadows, until she reached a little-known servant’s door, tucked discreetly in
a corner behind a trellis that bore a thick covering of ivy.

The
door was unlocked, as arranged, and she stepped through into a wide,
marble-floored hallway dimly lit by a few glowing crystals.

Depending on one’s perspective, it
was either very late or quite early, barely three hours past midnight. Even the
hardiest courtiers had gone to their beds, as had most of the servants. But
Atropos knew the king was still awake and at work, and his guards with him.

The man on the door was no fool and
no coward. The moment he saw Atropos he knew who, and what, she was. But he
stood his ground, a mountain of ebony muscle barring the heavy oak doors with
his body, weapons ready, though not actively threatening her.

“I will see the king.”

The guard did not meet her milky
gaze. Instead he stared over her left shoulder, into the middle distance, as he
answered her in a voice that was completely steady, despite the muscle that
twitched nervously above his right eye. “The king is not to be disturbed.”

“He will see me.” Her voice was
harsh as the caw of a carrion bird, but the soldier neither flinched nor moved.
He was accustomed to death, this one, having dealt it out, and seen it, more
often than most. His name, she recalled, was Petros. It was certainly apt. He
was solid as a rock—and just about as bright.

Petros
opened his mouth to again refuse her, but was saved by the king’s command from
behind the closed doors.

“Let the crone in.”

The guard turned and opened the door
for her without further comment.

After the chill dimness of the hall,
the warmth and light of King Leu’s library was most welcome. Atropos moved
gratefully toward the fireplace in the corner nearest the door. Though Leu was
seated near the fire, he was not looking into the flames. Instead, he stared at
a painting that hung on the wall nearby. To the uninformed, the painting was
just that, a perfect rendering of the entry hall of a modern human apartment.
Atropos knew, however, that the frame contained something more than a painting.
She also knew just how much the image meant to her host.

Leu made her wait before turning to
greet her. It was a deliberate slight, and it rankled, though Atropos knew
better than to let that show. She had sought this meeting. She was in his
castle, his place of power. And while all men must bow to the will of Fate,
this was not the time or place to remind him of it. Leu was a king, and a proud
man.

“Why are you here?” He spoke calmly,
his eyes gleaming silver in the firelight.

“I need a boon,” she answered
sourly.

His elegant, dark brows rose so high
they disappeared beneath a shock of his dark hair, in the front braided tight
against his skull and pulled back in a tail, the back hanging nearly to his
knees. She felt a pang of memory—Clotho’s—of the silken feel of that hair
beneath her fingers and sliding over her naked body. . . . The crone found
herself fighting her younger aspect for control of their shared body. Closing
her eyes, she clamped down tight with her will until Clotho sullenly relented.

“You seek a boon? From me?” Leu gave
a slow, feral smile, his pleasure evident in the anticipatory flash of sharp,
white teeth. “Have a seat,” he suggested with belated courtesy, gesturing
toward the beautifully carved wooden chair across from him. “Would you like a
drink?”

Atropos nodded her consent. Resting
her cane against the nearby table she lowered herself onto the straight-backed
chair. It was not a comfortable seat. The carvings dug painfully into her back,
and whatever padding the seat had once held had been worn down to nothing. She
smiled grimly, knowing that the only better seat in the room was the king’s;
the others were all intended to subtly discourage everyone else from lingering.

Everything about Leu was subtle,
complex, layered. He was a very physical being, Clotho and Lachesis could both
attest to that, but ultimately his mind was what made him most dangerous—and
the kind of High King Faerie needed. Atropos might not like the man, but she
respected him, and her respect was not earned easily.

She took a glass of wine from his
hand, the liquid so dark a red it was nearly purple. She didn’t worry about
poison. He wasn’t the type, and she was immune to most of them anyway. Still,
there was always the possibility of an accident. The man had so very many
enemies.

Leu pushed aside a stack of maps and
leaned back against the edge of the table, quite close to her. Taking a sip
from his glass, he looked down at her and, smiling that dangerous smile, said,
“Let the dickering begin.”